


everything still remains the same

by abvj



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abvj/pseuds/abvj
Summary: Five times Harvey and Donna do something that could be misconstrued as pining.





	everything still remains the same

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for archival purposes. Originally written in 2012, so circa season two. Unfortunately, the sentiment still applies today.

(1)

 

Over the years, Harvey has amassed a vast array of facts and tidbits of information pertaining to all things Donna – her likes, dislikes, routines, and habits. He knows she reserves Sunday evenings for yoga because she likes to start her week with clarity. Likes the dull ache of her muscles the next morning, and the way it focuses her, centers her by aiding in the transition from chaos to calm inside her head. 

The Sunday after the trail-run, he waits outside her favorite gym, the heat of the day settling deftly at the base of his spine. He catches sight of her from afar, watches closely as the emotions flicker across her face – the surprise, the apprehension, and finally the annoyance. He offers her a stupid half-wave, moves towards her. He is surprised when she meets him halfway. 

The silence is awkward, palpable as he stands before her, just a mere two feet apart, and the distance is vast between them. He can taste her anger, feel it press into his skin. 

He speaks first: “We’re not going to trial.” 

Donna’s eyes widen, her mouth turning before she schools her expression. In the end she merely raises one, unimpressed eyebrow. “You _settled_?” 

Shrugging, he tries a grin. It stretches too tightly across his mouth. “It came to my attention that settling would be best for all those involved.” 

“A selfless act,” she deadpans. “Who knew you were capable?” 

Shuffling his feet, he takes the dig in stride, knows he has earned it. “I wanted you to know.” 

She nods curtly, shifts the strap of her bag up higher when it starts to slip down her arm. “And now I do,” she says, and moves to walk away. 

When she does, her shoulder connects with his in a way he knows is deliberate, and it propels him into action. He reaches for her, fingers grasping for the crook of her arm, thumb pressing into the delicate bones as he tries to tug her back to him. 

_Donna,_ he murmurs, just her name, and she whirls around, turning to face him. She stares at his hand where they are connected skin to skin for a beat, then at him, and Harvey is suddenly overwhelmed by all the things he wants to tell her. All the things he feels as though she needs to know: how much she means to him, how he should have been the one to fire her, yes, but he couldn’t. How he knew he would never be able to rebound from that moment, so he gave in to Jessica all to easily. Harvey wants her to know he did fight for her, but he knows it wasn’t enough, knows he should have tried harder but he simply didn’t know what to do with anger caused directly by her. 

Mostly, Harvey wants to tell Donna that his life fell into complete disarray without her. He wants her to know how much he hates the new filing system, and how every morning he looks up, expecting her to be there, and it is a trial just to remember.

“I want us to be okay,” is all he says instead. His fingers tighten around her elbow in anticipation because he knows her, feels her begin to pull away before she physically makes the move. 

When she does, he lets her, and the loss reverberates through him. He expects a tirade, words spit at him in anger about how it isn’t always about him, about what he wants, what he needs. Harvey expects something along the lines of _You’re going to have to try harder than that, Specter._ But Donna looks as tired as he feels, and her exhaustion intermingles with his and nips at his skin. Harvey came here for a fight, for an argument, a start towards fumbling their way back to common ground, but he knows he won’t get it. Not today. 

Instead, she merely sighs and breathes softly, “It’s not that simple.”

He nods, and when she walks away, he doesn’t try to stop her. 

 

 

 

(2)

 

In the beginning, everyone asks them, _at least_ once, “So you are, like, what? A thing?”

There is a beat of silence, a short span of time where she merely glances at Harvey and Harvey merely glances at her and they laugh, loudly, the sheer ridiculousness of that statement known to them and them alone. 

Donna’s mouth curls defiantly, baring her teeth, and in the early years, this is a tired routine. Their smiles twist pleasantly across their mouths, practiced and false. It is easier, they decide early on, than the alternative, than allowing the rumors to run rampant, than allowing them to dampen the good they are trying to do here, in the DA’s office. 

“This,” they say at once, and Donna motions between them with a careless flick of her wrist. “Will never be a thing. 

“We’re too alike,” he says. 

“Too self-involved,” she supplies. 

“She’s also incredibly bossy. Have you met her?” Harvey adds, always taking it a step too far just to goad her into an argument, just to see the spark she knows he admires too damn much – even if he will never admit it aloud. 

Harvey’s smile twists at the corner of his mouth, and this one, she knows, is just for her. 

“Excuse me? Bossy? I prefer the term _efficient,”_ she corrects testily. Her hand juts out, reaching to poke him in the side, but Harvey subverts her movement, his fingers catching and encircling her wrist. 

Donna’s pulse quickens under his fingertips, and she allows a tiny, but not so insignificant part of herself to think _maybe._

 

 

 

(3)

 

Harvey has this fantasy.

It’s his office, late at night, the firm silent and empty except for them, and the sounds of their movements echoing off the glass. Donna moves in circles around his desk, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, her dress snug, tight, fitting her like a glove. He admires her openly, presses a file into her hands, and when she begins to move away, he allows his touch to linger with intent. She smiles and so does he. In the distance, the sound of things clicking into place can be heard until the two of them are drifting closer and closer still, her mouth eventually slanting against his with a hint of a subtle promise, a lingering certainty he breathes in and makes his own. 

When Harvey is in the mood to admit things to himself, when he takes the time to unearth buried secrets and pull out all the things he’s compartmentalized and filed away, he is able to admit that he has many fantasies about Donna. 

All of them have varying degrees of subtext and meaning, but they all end the same: 

With Harvey on his knees between her legs.

Even in his fantasies, he is greedy, a bastard in the way he takes, takes, takes from her. His mouth inches her open as he carves his name into her body with his tongue, his fingers spreading her thighs wider, palm flattening against her stomach to hold her still. Fer fingers dig into his scalp without remorse. The words that fall out of her mouth are filthy at best, and Harvey smiles against her, whispers words of encouragement, murmurs for her to trust him, to simply let go. 

When she does, he watches as she comes apart, keeps his mouth pressed against her. He waits as she blinks herself into clarity, as she sighs her _thank you_ before beginning again, his fingers twisting, moving to tease her again. 

Sometimes in these fantasies she will say something akin to _I love you_ , the words a mere breath as she fuses her mouth to his, and sometimes she won’t. 

When she does, though, he says it back every single time and means it as much as he is able. 

Harvey doesn’t like to think about what this means. 

 

 

 

(4)

 

During the time she and Harvey do not speak of – the trial separation neither wanted, but both deserved – Donna drinks, and sees old friends, and does yoga more than is probably healthy. She takes time to head up north and visits her parents. She also goes on a few dates with a friend of a friend, a man named David who says all the right things and serves as a perfect distraction and nothing further. 

David knows nothing of the law, doesn’t understand what a closer is, has never heard the name Harvey Specter. David is kind and funny and makes her laugh. He takes her to nice restaurants and tells her she looks beautiful with a tone filled to the brim with both awe and affection. Donna likes that, likes him. She likes that he says things without an ironic twist of his mouth, that he doesn’t try to make feelings and meaningful statements into jokes. She likes that he says what he means and how he feels and there is no guessing, no subtext, no lines to read between. 

It is simple, easy, and in the car after their third or fourth date, he puts his hand on her knee, murmurs _my place_ with the perfect amount of apprehension. At her slight nod, his fingers graze higher and higher still, until they are pressing against her. 

Donna wonders, idly, if Harvey likes it in the car. Becomes angry with the way the arousal coils warmly in the depths of her stomach at the mere thought. 

(She doesn’t allow herself to think of Harvey again until much later, until after when she’s back at her apartment, the water scalding as it runs down her skin, and her hands are between her legs, washing the sex away.) 

 

 

 

(5)

 

He looks up and she’s there. 

It’s a common occurrence. Their lives bleed together and she is one of the few who can say _I know him_ with any amount of truth. This morning, she is lining the files on his desk in order of preference, alerting him to his missed calls and the meeting Jessica has arranged for the afternoon. In the morning, before her second coffee has kicked in, she is sheer efficiency and clipped, short tones. He flicks his eyes to his watch, notes the time. It’s only a little after eight. He has another fifteen minutes, _at least,_ before the latte she somehow conned Mike into bringing her kicks in. 

Still, he grins, watches her until she stills to look at him. “Hi,” he murmurs when she does, just because, just to throw her off. It’s the tiny victories with her he enjoys the most – mostly because they are the only ones she allows him.

Donna’s gaze is brief, her mouth twisting. “Hi,” she says, without mirth, and just like that, she turns to leave, and he watches the sway of her hips a little too closely as she does. 

Today, she wears red, a deep flush of color that contrasts with her smooth, pale skin, and sets off the color of her freckles. Before he can stop himself, he remembers back years and lines drawn in the sand. If he closes his eyes, and takes a moment for himself, he can still smell her shampoo, can still remember the taste of her on his tongue. 

(He also remembers, all too clearly, how he had pushed, his mouth just a tad bit too possessive against hers. He remembers the way his fingers trailed over the bones of her hips, the curve of her spine, memorizing the dips and jagged edges of her until she pulled away, until she murmured _this is a bad idea_ before _we’re not ready for this._

Harvey remembers how he had agreed all too easily. The nod of his head sharp, quick so it would not betray his true intentions. He remembers going home after, the lie tasting like acid on the tip of his tongue. He remembers swallowing the whiskey to rid himself of it, and how he traced the lines of her with his fingers into every woman who shared his bed for weeks and months after.) 

At her desk now, Donna’s gaze meets his. She tilts her head out of quiet curiosity, her smile lingering. _We’re not ready,_ he thinks. 

Harvey looks away.


End file.
